The boy across the street has the most achingly beatable bottom. I wonder if he realises. How would he? He doesn’t get to see it does he? You don’t get a proper view in the mirror do you, not even in a full length one. Maybe you’d know if you saw yourself in a photo, or maybe a video.
I know how spankable he is and that’s really all that matters. I don’t know his name so I christened him Matthew. Matty when he’s been a good boy. As in, “Oh Matty you’ve passed all your exams, what a clever boy you are.” Matthew if he has displeased me. Like, “Matthew are those cigarettes I see in your pocket?” Or, “Matthew, you know your curfew is ten-thirty, it’s gone eleven. Get in here now! Bend over my knee.”
I used to watch out for him every morning. Regular as clockwork he’d leave home for school. On his bike. Wonderful. He gave me a terrific view of his bum and muscular legs as he mounted and started to peddle down The Avenue.
Then, I’d lie down on the bed and pleasure myself. I imagined him at school, in the headmaster’s study. I didn’t mind that he was eighteen years old, it was my fantasy. It’s a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional sports, traditional uniform and, most importantly of all, traditional discipline. It’s an old-fashioned study with wood panelling and all that. There’s an open fire, but it’s not lit because it’s summer term. Even so the headmaster is still dressed in a heavy tweed suit and over that he’s wearing an old academic gown On his head he has one of those mortar-board caps.
“Well Matthew,” he says, or more likely he’s calling him Matthews because they call boys by their surname at that school. “Well Matthews, he says, you again.” It’s not the first time Matthew has been up before the head. He’s not an evil lad, but he is really mischievous. He’s one of those boys who just can’t stay out of trouble. And, he’s cheeky with it. And mischief and cheek do not go down well at a posh, traditional school.
The headmaster jaws him for a bit. “Disgraceful behaviour. Shocking. Outrageous.” Then he says “Disgraceful” again because he’s running out of words. Matthew just looks shamefaced at the floor, his hands behind his back. His face is flushed. “What have you to say for yourself boy,” the headmaster growls. Of course, all Mathew can do is mumble incoherently. The headmaster does not care. He had long ago decided what he was going to do.
He paces steadily across the study past the glass-fronted bookshelves until he reaches a thin, tall cupboard. There he stops and delves into the pocket of his trousers. Matthew can’t bear to look. The headmaster finds the key he wants and unlocks the cupboard door. He pauses and looks back at the sixth-former and is pleased to note the boy’s evident discomfort. The headmaster then opens the door and peers inside. Matthew knows from bitter – painful – experience what lies within that cupboard. He still stares resolutely at his feet, noticing for the first time the scuffmarks on the toecaps of his black lace-up shoes.
A dull rattling sound confirms to Matthew that the headmaster is selecting the cane he will use to beat the boy’s bottom. The headmaster has a wide selection of canes, one to suit every occasion. This time he is confronted with a senior boy who is also a serial offender. Nothing but his stoutest, most powerful cane will do. He takes hold of a dark-brown specimen and pulls it from the cupboard, quickly closing the door before the other canes spill out onto the floor.
The headmaster turns and faces Matthew. Now, because it’s my fantasy, I become that headmaster. I take the cane and slowly, thoughtfully flex it between my hands. Despite its thickness it curves into an arc easily. I swish it through the air delighted at the swooshing noise it makes as it flies. I am equally satisfied as the colour drains from Matthew’s face. I flex the cane in my hands once more and admire the many notches along its length – it’s about three feet long – and the crook handle at one end. Yes, this is a traditional school cane. I know they have been outlawed in schools for more than thirty years (more’s the pity) but this is my fantasy and I just don’t care.
I point the cane at the study door. “Take off your blazer and hang it there.” I watch closely as Matthew undoes the three buttons on his jacket and slips it from his shoulders. Slowly he takes the three or four steps necessary to reach the door. I get a wonderful view of the muscles in his back rippling under his gleaming white shirt as he reaches up to the hook. I get my first proper look at his firm buttocks stretching against his pale-grey trousers.
He turns and faces me awaiting my further instructions. “Take that chair, turn it around,” I swish the cane at an ancient leather armchair at the opposite end of the study. Matthew knows what is expected of him, as I said he is no stranger to the study. The chair has its back to the wall and with grand efficiency he takes hold of its arms and swivels it around. Once again I get a terrific view of that achingly spankable bottom.
The back of the armchair now faces into the room. Matthew stands awkwardly, his usually open smiling face is set in a deep frown. He knows the next few moments are going to be deeply depressing. I am anxious to get on with things so I give a curt instruction, “Matthews, bend over that chair.” He takes a deep breath, rubs the palms of his hands together and dives across the chair. He puts me in mind of a man plunging into an icy pool. “Head low, bottom high, feet apart.” I say all this although it is not strictly necessary as he has already adopted a perfectly submissive posture. His bottom is jutting out at just the right angle to receive the swipes of my cane.
And what a bottom it is. He is in his final weeks of his school career and like so many other boys in his class he is growing out of his school uniform. Understandably mothers do not wish to spend money on expensive school outfits at a time like this so the boys often bulge out of their clothes. Matthew’s pale-grey trousers hang from his hips and fit his waist snugly without the benefit of a belt. Now (bent across the back of the armchair as he is) the tight trousers highlight the roundness and firmness of his bottom. The material digs into his crack thereby separating each cheek.
I stand to Matthew’s left and rub my cane across the fleshiest part of his bum. It twitches in anticipation of the pain to come. I saw the cane across the cheeks and tap-tap-tap getting my aim. Matthew remains perfectly still, just the way I like: submissive. My own heartrate is off the scale and the study suddenly feels excessively hot. I bite down on my lower lip, I lift the cane high, let it hang in the air for a moment and bring it crashing down across Matthew’s hard bottom. He groans quietly but I do not take much notice, my eyes are glued to the thin line my cane has made across the seat of his trousers. My cock twitches.
I deliver six hard swipes, each one falling perfectly across Matthew’s passive backside. It is six of my very best. I know Matthew’s bottom is throbbing like mad, but trooper that he is the eighteen-year-old will not show it. I take a moment or two to catch my breath and to admire the sight of Matthew stretched across the back of the armchair. The tight pale-grey trousers really do show off his bottom to great effect.
I am not finished yet. This is my fantasy and I can do what I like so I say, “Stand up boy.” He does so but he does not face me. Maybe he is ashamed of his teary eyes. “Take down your trousers and bend back over,” I intone. I cannot see his face so I have no idea how he registers this instruction. He makes no protest and just reaches for the waist of his trousers. He wears no belt so it is a matter of moments before the front of the trousers are open. The zipper is pulled and the trousers begin to slide over his hips. “All the way,” I demand and he bends slightly and pushes them down his thighs and over his knees until they bunch up at his shins. “Bend over that chair,” I say again because I like the sound of the words. He does the rubbing of palms and diving thing again and his bottom is once again submissively presented to me.
He wears regulation white cotton Y-front underpants. I tuck the cane under my arm and approach the boy. With my two hands now free I take hold of the tail of his white cotton shirt and roughly pull it up his back and away from the target area. I notice with deep satisfaction the expanse of smooth hairless skin I have uncovered. The underpants do not fit Matthew’s buttocks quite as snugly as his trousers so I take hold of the elasticated waist and pull gently. It is not strictly necessary but I then cup my right palm and trace the contours of first the right cheek and then the left one until all creases are out of the soft smooth cotton. This gives me a great deal of pleasure.
I slip the cane back into my hand and take up my position. Matthew remains stoical across the back of the leather armchair. I admire him for this. Not only does a trousers-down caning result in a great deal of intense pain for the naughty boy it must also be somewhat humiliating. I saw and tap the cane noticing how pliable Matthew’s bottom is. I swipe one of my hardest strokes yet across the very centre of the cheeks and the cane bounces off. Matthew lets out his first real yelp of the afternoon. Yes, I congratulate myself, he felt that one all right. Encouraged, I let fly with another and land it just below the first. The boy’s hips wriggle and he stamps his feet, but this time manages to stifle the yap.
It isn’t the pain I inflict on Matthew that excites me, it is more the aesthetics of it all. The way it looks. His small, round perfectly-formed buttocks offered to me without fuss. His action says, “I am a naughty boy, I deserve to be punished. Here cane me.” I know that when I have finished he will not resent me. He will admire me. He might even love me. I want him to grow up to be a fine man. He is not yet an adult, he needs a guiding hand and if that hand (or cane, belt, brush or what-not) has to strike his bottom with some force from time to time then so be it.
I deliver another exemplary six strokes, each one laid on with vim. His bum must be on fire. I know mine would be in a similar circumstance. Now, I will have the chance to find out. “Stand up boy,” I snap. “Take those pants down, back over.” I swallow hard, my mouth has lost all saliva. Matthew hauls himself to his feet. Again without fuss he obeys me. He hitches his thumbs under the waistband and with not much more than a flick of the wrist he sends them to his knees. Then he is back over the chair.
There are twelve distinct lines across his behind. All more or less running in parallel. If I do say so myself I am an expert with the cane. I stand close to Matthew and remember for the first time this afternoon how small his cheeks are; I could fit one easily into the palm of my hand. I resist the temptation to do this; that would clearly be inappropriate conduct for a headmaster. Instead I find an area of his posterior not yet marked and tap my cane there.
Often, it is about at this time my fantasy comes to a torrid conclusion and I am obliged to undertake some emergency cleaning operations. That headmaster scenario is always one of my favourites but sometimes I vary it. I am Matthew’s uncle and for some reason he is living with me. I have been called by the school about my nephew’s bad behaviour. The school is no longer permitted to administer corporal punishment, but mark my words that doesn’t stop me.
By the time I reach home Matthew has changed from his school uniform and is wearing his usual tight blue jeans. He knows the school has contacted me and he is in no doubt how I will react. If he thinks the heavy denim jeans will give him some added protection he is to be sorely disappointed.
I’m a man of few words and all I say is, “I told you before if there was any more trouble at school I’d give you a jolly good spanking.” He doesn’t have anything to say to that. He can’t say I haven’t warned him.
Then I get on with it. I don’t even give myself time to take my jacket off. Matthew hops from foot to foot miserably while I pull out a chair from behind the dining table and set it down in the middle of the room. He babbles something about not doing it again. What rot! He is always up to mischief at school (as he is at home) he deserves to have his bottom spanked and I am more than willing to do it.
I point to a spot to the right of where I am seated. “Stand there,” I instruct and he does as he is told.
“Take down your jeans.”
Slowly and carefully, he undoes the button and deals with the zip. The weight of the denim is enough the made them slip down his thighs unaided and they bunch up at his knees. That is enough for me. He wears tight micro briefs that barely cover his privates and buttocks. I hardly notice, they are of no consequence, they will be coming down; but not yet.
I part my knees a little to create a platform for his body then I reach my hand out and take Matthew’s elbow to forcibly guided him across my lap. He is a small, thin lad and his legs dangle in mid-air and his arms hardly touch the dusty carpet in front of him. His bottom is perched across my thigh at a perfect angle for spanking. Of course, he tries to cover his bum with a hand but I smack it away. “Don’t even try,” I chide. “There’s a clothes brush in the drawer if you’d prefer.” He gets my message and settles himself face-down, bottom up across my knees.
“Mmmm,” I say as if only just thinking of this. I grip hold of the waist of his briefs, “These have no useful function at a time such as this,” I continue haughtily, and with three tugs I have them over his buttocks and down inside his jeans. “There. A bare bottom,” I tease, “I hope you feel thoroughly ashamed.” Of course, I am not expecting a reply and none comes. He is wearing a short t-shirt and it is nowhere near the target area, but I push it up his back nonetheless. I take a few moments to admire his smooth, hairless skin.
Once again I notice how small his cheeks are compared to my hand. It is an achingly spankable bottom and I waste no time getting started. I smack his left cheek hard and then the right and am delighted to see the imprint of my hand embossed in the tight flesh. Matthew’s hips wriggle. I can tell he felt that so I quickly follow up with a couple of dozen real stingers. Soon no square centimetre of his buttocks is left untouched. His bum feels sweaty to my touch.
Matthew breathes sharply. The cracks of my hard hand across his taut pert bum echo around the small room.
“Ah!” he wheezes as I set to with a pace. The cracks sound like machinegun fire. His bottom is turning a deep pink. His legs kick out and he waves his arms about. It looks like he is trying to swim off my lap. He reaches behind himself to protect his bottom but I slap it away. “Remember that brush,” I growl.
The spanking quickly develops into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of my hand. Each time I contact with his solid bum I grimace. I am certain that my hand is hurting more than Matthew’s bum. He is eighteen after all, even a vigorous over-the-knee bare-bottomed spanking isn’t going to do him much harm. I don’t mind this, as I said I don’t want to cause Matthew any real pain. I get enough enjoyment from just doing this.
My hand pounds heavily into his naked bottom time and time again. Whether he is in real pain or not, Matthew is kicking and squirming. I take no notice and set about slapping the undercurves; that sensitive sit-spot where the cheeks meet the thighs. The part that will connect with the chair when he tries to sit down.
I see Matthew’s face is as red and hot as his bare bum. I start slapping the backs of his thighs. That really does hurt and he squeaks his displeasure.
There we are; Matthew my naughty nephew, eighteen-years-old draped across my lap with his jeans and pants around his knees. I am giving his adorable bottom a thorough spanking. His bum is glowing.
I stop after ten minutes my hand is sore but I am happy. It has been a long, humiliating and very painful bare bottom spanking.
I feel the need to warn him about his future behaviour. Next time, I promise, it will be that brush – and trousers and pants down again. What does he think about that? He doesn’t answer. “Maybe next time, I should come up to that school of yours and take you across my knee and spank you in front of all your pals.” It is a delightful idea; maybe (in my dreams) I will do just that.
“Get up to your room,” I order. He doesn’t need telling twice. He jumps off my lap, rubs his rosy bottom ruefully and with one tug pulls up both his pants and his jeans. He is still zipping himself up as he crashes out of the room.
Picture credits: Darrien / Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second